Here’s a fun fact about me: I wake up most mornings with a soul-crushing sense of dread that makes me want to stock up on canned goods, lock myself in my apartment and never see the light of day again. I don’t know what it is. I guess I’m just prone to anxiety and depression. Or maybe I just really get off to being afraid of everything.
I’m on a tiny dosage of medication to help me deal with my broken brain. I also see a therapist off and on, but really I kind of just use him to bounce jokes off of. If I make him laugh, it was a good session.
Like many sad sacks, my mood fluctuates with the weather. But unlike most people, sunny days and rainbows don’t make me feel all cheery inside. In fact, blue skies and chirping birds make me feel worse. Much worse.
Instead, I’m happiest when the weather reflects my torrential depressive feelings, and by that I mean I love torrential downpours. It’s so cliche, but I’m only happy when it rains. Gray skies and thunder provide me with a rational excuse to hide under a blanket and be lazy.
So what really dries up my serotonin levels is when the weather shifts from shitty to pretty overnight. And with this new crisp fall air and these bright lit blue skies, I’m ready to throw myself in front of a bus. I swear, if I see one more fucking squirrel frolicking or one more cute baby wearing sunglasses, I think I’m going to pull a Sylvia Plath.
Fortunately, I do have one thought that keeps me going despite all these lovely perfect days with their perfectly formed clouds and brilliantly blue skies and softly blowing breezes and smiling dogs and pumpkin-flavored everything and scarves and crunching leaves. Winter. Chicago winter is coming, and it will kill everything.
I love Chicago winter because I hate it. It’s a fucked up way to look at the world. But beautiful weather just doesn’t harmonize with how I feel on the inside most days. Sunshine taunts my cold bitterness. It casts a warm and nurturing light on my black heart. But winter, oh you sadistic bitch, I love winter. It turns the sky a perpetual gray. It makes everyone into a shut-in. It weighs down the mood of the world so that everything retains a constant and morose sadness.
Also, I just realized that this post makes me sound incredibly goth. Like I may as well buy a trapperkeeper and cover it with The Cure and Morrissey song lyrics. But look, I don’t wear my misery on my sleeve. And I’m actually in a constant state of happiness. It’s a strange dichotomy, and it’s hard to explain. But I’m very happy for what I have, what I’ve accomplished and what I’m accomplishing. At this point, depression is like an imaginary friend I’ve had since I was little. It comes and it goes, and I find it kind of comforting.